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  Oh . . .

  It was the magister. The woman who ruled over the entire Enclave—and everyone in it—with an iron fist.

  2

  Null

  “Acolyte Terak,” the magister said. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she didn’t need to be. Not with half a thousand trained novitiates, journeyers, fathers, and chiefs at her beck and call.

  Like all the other members of the Enclave, the current magister, Inedi, was a human, and she wore the same voluminous black robes. Her closely-shaved head forced attention to her deep-sunken, dark eyes. She wasn’t old, as far as Terak could tell, but instead her skin resembled the wood of the iron oak club, weathered and pristine. The only recognition of her office came from the single silver chain that shone at her neck.

  “Magister Inedi, I apologize . . .” Terak dropped to one knee, as was customary when approached by the leader of their order.

  “The Magister Lorett is an interesting figure, is she not?” Inedi ignored his words as she walked past. Her robes reached to her ankles, and from his crouch, Terak saw a pair of finely tooled purple-leather boots that clicked as she walked. He wondered how she had managed to surprise him without his sharp ears hearing her first.

  Well, there is a simple answer to that, isn’t there . . . Terak gritted his teeth. Magic. Rumor was that Magister Inedi had it. That you didn’t get to be the magister unless you had passed both the martial and the arcanum tests.

  “What is it that fascinates you about her, Acolyte Terak?” the magister asked. He noted that she hadn’t given him permission to stand, not yet. On today of all days, he was certain that he couldn’t afford to lose more face with the rulers of his community.

  My prison, Terak thought.

  “Acolyte?” Inedi prompted him.

  Why not be truthful? he thought bitterly.

  “She doesn’t seem like the other reliefs, Magister,” he said. This Magister Lorett was different than the austere men and women of black stone.

  Just like he was different.

  “Go on.” Inedi’s heels scraped across the paving slabs of the garden. She came to stand in front of him.

  Is this a test, too?

  “It’s her curiosity, Magister,” Terak said. “She isn’t commanding or demanding, like the other Magi—carvings.” He corrected himself just in time.

  He heard small exhalation of breath from above him and a pause, before Inedi’s voice came back. “And I take it that you think me demanding, Acolyte Terak?”

  Oh no.

  “No, Magister, not in the least,” Terak said quickly.

  Another small sigh from above. This time when Inedi spoke, she sounded annoyed.

  “Stand,” she said. “You have an appointment with the Chief Arcanum, do you not?”

  Terak stood and bowed, as was the correct procedure, and hurried to the wooden door.

  “Oh, and Acolyte Terak?” Magister Inedi’s voice halted him. He turned and bowed once more out of reflex, but Inedi wasn’t even looking at him. She had turned to gaze down at the carving of Magister Lorett thoughtfully. “Good luck,” Inedi said, but as Terak stumbled over his thanks and raced through the door, he was certain that he had heard disappointment in the magister’s voice.

  “You’re early,” the Chief Arcanum said as soon as Terak had arrived.

  It was true. The main hall of the arcanum—with work benches and scroll racks against the walls and long lines of benches in the middle—was empty of anyone apart from the chief and himself. The first hour bell after midday hadn’t rung yet. The rest of the acolytes who would be tested today were probably still at their canteen tables. Terak had forgone joining them after his encounter with the magister. He wasn’t hungry anyway, and an indirect invitation by Inedi to get on with his day was as good as any command.

  “Is that a problem, sir?” Terak said, head bowed slightly with the proper amount of respect.

  The Chief Arcanum looked up from his distant lectern and adjusted his small spectacles on the end of a rather prodigious nose, as if he had only just remembered that he was talking to someone. He appeared to be an ancient human whose oversized black robes hung on his hunched frame. His beard had grown wispy and white, but his head was a pale, blotchy pink.

  “Oh. No, I shouldn’t think so. Just, uh . . .continue on with your mental exercise while we wait for the testing to begin . . .” The old man’s eyes swept back to the ancient grimoire that he was scanning through.

  Mental exercises, right. Terak sighed and tried to remember just what it was he was supposed to do.

  Control your breath. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a few minutes, he felt his heartbeat slow and his apprehension die down.

  Lower your feelings, Terak remembered. The concerns for the upcoming testing and all his frustration about meeting the magister and failing Gourdain’s testing. He felt them to be a heavy cloud that he slowly allowed to flow deeper through his body, past his head, neck, and chest to his gut. It left him feeling clearer—a little.

  Be aware. Terak concentrated on what he could hear. The soft rustling of the grimoire pages and little else, at first. But after a moment, the other sounds arrived, too—the constant sighs of the wind that whistled around and through the keep.

  Then came the smells—the sharp, bitter, and fragrant mixture of compounds kept in their tightly-stoppered jars. The acolytes had been learning to use them—which ones would produce clouds of white smoke when thrown into a flame, which ones would evaporate in water but make you ill or sleepy, or which ones might be used to make a strong resin that was almost impossible to crack.

  And finally, the sight. Terak opened his eyes slowly to see the room again. He noticed that at the far end, past the lectern, the thick black curtains had been drawn. Unusual, as the Chief Arcanum usually liked them open. This allowed the vaulted windows on the small, raised stage to let in light. His ears picked up a new sound from beyond those veils—a rustle of something. Robes? Was someone standing behind there?

  Clang-clang-clang! The elf jumped as the first hour lesson bell rang, and he was shocked out of his state of heightened awareness. All his forgotten anxiety leaped straight back from gut to head.

  With the harsh clamor of the bell came the sound of the rushing feet of the other acolytes in his group. Terak’s apprehension deepened, but he allowed himself to breathe out slowly and tried to focus again.

  This is my chance. If I can do well here, then maybe I can still get that gray belt, he thought. He resumed his exercises.

  Remember the three forms of knowledge: emptiness, fortitude, and pain, he thought as the other students hurried into the room, each one bowing briefly to the Chief Arcanum before standing by a bench just as the elf was. There was Big Mendes, a rounded sort of youth with ruddy hair, and Reticula, the small, sharp-featured girl who frowned when she saw Terak standing there.

  None of the other acolytes elected to stand next to, or anywhere near, Terak. “Worm,” he heard one of them mutter. Probably Torin, the blond-haired, green-eyed acolyte who had seemed to take an even greater personal dislike to him.

  Terak ignored them, keeping his mind focused and his body still as the Chief Arcanum had taught.

  Emptiness is the first form of knowledge. Know what you lack. Know that you can take in any ideas, experiences, feelings, and let them go.

  In front of him, the other students shuffled nervously in their places as they waited for the Chief Arcanum to notice them.

  Fortitude is the next form of knowledge. Know how to be strong. How to be unyielding in spirit.

  The sounds of the acolytes faded as they settled, to be replaced by the small sighs and whistles of the Black Keep winds.

  Pain is the final form of knowledge. It will teach you everything else you need to know.

  “Students!” The Chief Arcanum had finally noticed them. Terak snapped out of his exercises, his eyes leaping to the old man who stood at the lectern ahead of them. “Today is the day-of-days, as they used to re
fer to it. A Testing Day. A chance for those of you with talents to show that you are worthy to wear the gray belt of the novitiate.” The arcanum’s voice was querulous and weak, but it carried.

  “Those of you who pass the tests will be invited to proceed to the next level. And those of you who fail . . . You will remain as acolytes for another year, at which time you will be tested again. And again.” There was a hint of iron to the arcanum’s voice.

  “But this is not just the opportunity to wear the gray belt, but the chance for me to see which of you has greater potential in the arcane arts. Depending on your degree of aptitude—and every living thing has some facility for magic—you may be invited to attend more advanced classes in the various branches of lore. Understand?”

  “Yes, Chief Arcanum!” the students roundly chorused. All apart from Terak, who remained silent at the back of the class. Maybe it was his recent failure at the Chief Martial’s test, or his encounter with Magister Inedi, but a part of him grumbled to himself, How can we say we understand when we don’t even know what the test will be, or what we will learn?

  “Then we shall begin,” the arcanum said abruptly, slamming the grimoire shut and gesturing for Acolyte Mendes to step forward.

  “Recite the three forms of knowledge!” the Chief Arcanum barked at him, no sooner than he had stepped forward to the front of the class.

  “Uh . . .” Mendes stammered at first but repeated them correctly. “Emptiness, fortitude, pain!”

  “Name the three substances that will blind a man in smoke form!” the chief snapped.

  Terak watched as Mendes’s face went blank.

  That’s easy! Terak thought. Phosphorum. Capsicum. Black Vitrum!

  But as Mendes clearly could not name them, the chief moved onto the next question.

  “The magister who first divided the schools into martial and arcanum. Quickly now!”

  Magister Turolo, Terak answered silently. Once again, Mendes couldn’t answer, and the Chief Arcanum let out a weary sigh.

  “Then there is only one test left. Hold out your hand, Acolyte Mendes.” The old man shuffled to the lectern, where he banged and rummaged in the small cabinet there to bring out a stone bowl, which he settled on the top.

  Terak watched as the Chief Arcanum carefully picked three small objects from the bowl. He held them over the boy’s palm before dropping them.

  Three small, perfectly spherical stones of milky white.

  Just like the stone Magister Lorett was carved from, Terak thought.

  There was a soft clink as they landed in Mendes’s hand and did nothing.

  “Close your hand, Mendes, and turn your fist over,” the Chief Arcanum said in hushed tones.

  Mendes did so, his eyes wide.

  “Now release them,” the old father said.

  Terak watched, as Mendes opened his outstretched hand, for the three small spheres to plummet downward—

  But something was happening to them as they fell. Two of them were changing color . . . and slowing.

  What? Terak heard a ripple of excitement spread through the acolytes as they saw what Mendes had apparently done. One of the stone spheres had dropped to the paving stones below, as marble and lifeless as before, but the other two . . .

  One hovered near Mendes’s palm and glowed a faint green. The other hovered lower and glowed a faint red.

  “Congratulations, Acolyte Mendes,” the Chief Arcanum said. “You have a pronounced aptitude for natural magic and a lesser aptitude for martial magic. You will receive the gray belt of the novitiate, despite your appalling lack of knowledge, and will study in these areas.”

  The Chief Arcanum plucked the magical stones out of the air, retrieved the third dormant one, and placed them back into the stone bowl.

  “Acolyte Torin! Step forward,” he called.

  Meanwhile, Terak was reeling from what he had seen. Was that it? It was a simple test of innate skill. He could do nothing to influence it, to prepare for it. The thought filled him with dread at the same time as it gave him hope.

  I am an elf, after all, he thought. Despite the fact that he had never been brought up to be one, it was widely known that elvish magics were the most powerful. In times immemorial, the elvish sorcerers had commanded dragons. They had remade the lands with their powers . . .

  This was really it! Terak was thinking as he barely listened to Torin’s test. He already knew that he had an excellent memory. He would be able to pass the verbal part of the test. Now he could finally prove to everyone that he wasn’t a “worm.” Instead, he was an elvish sorcerer-in-the-making!

  Torin did better than Mendes at the knowledge component of the test. When it came to the magical stone test, however, only one of them glowed and floated under his hand, which made Terak secretly overjoyed.

  It was red, however.

  “Martial magic! Gray belt from arcanum!” the chief called out, dismissing Torin as he worked through all of the acolytes.

  Each and every one had some form of magical aptitude, Terak saw with ever increasing glee. As the chief himself had taught, every living thing had magic. It was an innate, natural life force that pervaded everything . . .

  Some acolytes did better and others did worse in various areas. One nerdy thin youth by the name of Ganz achieved only a single floating stone that hovered a few inches off the floor.

  But it glowed black.

  “Summoning! Congratulations, Acolyte Ganz. You have some skill for the rarest of magical forms. Gray belt from arcanum!” the father announced.

  Having even the slightest magical ability, which they all had, Terak saw, was enough to ensure a gray belt. He had done it.

  Some of the acolytes did very well, however. The small, sharp-faced Reticula earned all three stones, shining brightly and hovering high under her hand. A deep blue, a green, and a red—or illusions, natural, and martial.

  And suddenly, there were no more acolytes left. Save for one.

  “Acolyte Terak! Step forward!” The Chief Arcanum barked, and the elf moved with quick steps to the front of the room. He bowed respectfully and stood up straight. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing his feelings to lower themselves into his body.

  “What is the Eighteenth Maxim?” the Chief Arcanum barked.

  Easy. “The mind is an arrow, pointing toward only what it is fired at,” Terak announced.

  “Which substance can fix wood to stone without nails or joints?”

  Terak blinked. That was an interesting one. Did the chief mean a binding? A type of construction . . .

  “Acolyte?”

  No, it had to be a fixative. “Resin from the winter pine, when heated and mixed with ochal powder,” Terak remembered.

  “Which magister was responsible for building the Black Keep?”

  Another easy one! That had to be the very first Magister Varis, didn’t it? Terak was about to say. Until he remembered something, a small detail of history he’d uncovered in his years of coming here and studying the scrolls.

  “Impossible to say, Chief. Elements of the Black Keep have stood long before human habitation, and so no magister is responsible for its construction,” he said.

  Terak was sure that he saw a flicker of amusement from the Chief Arcanum’s mouth.

  “Open your hand, Acolyte,” the chief said reverentially, proceeding to the next part of the test. Terak once again calmed his breathing and attempted to settle his mind as he opened his hand and felt the stones fall into them. He looked at them for a moment.

  “Turn your fist over and release, Acolyte,” the chief whispered.

  Terak could hear the silence pervade the room behind him as he turned his closed fist over. He wondered with a flutter of excitement what he would be good at. He would love it to be martial, red magic of course, but he would be just as happy with green or natural. Then again, the ability to create illusions or to summon spirits would also be astonishing!

  Terak opened his hand, grinning widely—


  Crack! The three stones hit the paving slabs at his feet lifelessly. And what was worse—each and every one of them had shattered into fragments.

  What!? Terak stared downward in horror. How could he have done that? Broken solid stone? Why weren’t they floating? Glowing?

  “Chief Arcanum?” he said, looking up in alarm to see that the old man’s face was equally horrified.

  “By the stars and heavens, Acolyte Terak is . . . a null!”

  3

  The Chief External

  “Dismissed!” a voice thundered in front of Terak, but it wasn’t coming from the Chief Arcanum, who had stumbled back from the elf.

  It had come from the heavy curtains at the back of the room—the ones which weren’t normally closed but had been this time. Now, they were thrust open to reveal the form of Magister Inedi in the center, with other looming figures behind her.

  Terak recognized the Chief Martial, as well as the Chief Hospitality, who oversaw the running of the Black Keep, and one other whom Terak couldn’t name.

  None of them looked impressed by his testing in any way.

  “Get him out of here!” the Chief Arcanum shrieked.

  “What did I do?” Terak asked, looking from the stern glares of all the assembled chiefs of the Enclave to the shattered stones at his feet. “If you let me use the worktables, I can use the resin to fix them—” He stooped quickly to reach for the shattered objects.

  “Don’t you dare touch them!” the Chief Arcanum hissed. Terak had never seen the man so animated before. In fact, the Chief Arcanum was standing with a finger pointing at him. Floating a half-inch in front of the tip of that finger was a single tongue of blue flame.

  Terak froze, slowly raising hands in the air as if they were poisonous, dangerous things. Apparently, they are . . .

  “I said acolytes dismissed!” Magister Inedi repeated as she swept into the Chief Arcanum’s hall. The other acolytes had at first not even moved a muscle, shocked and entranced by the drama playing out before them, but the second command from Inedi was enough to make them scatter. Terak could feel their caustic glances on him. He knew just what they were thinking.